Échec aux rois (Check to the kings)
by Paul Auchon
Summary: Sequel to "Unhappy customer", "A simple mission, really" and "Dans la gueule du loup". Illya's assignment in Russia is taking a little longer than expected, meanwhile Solo and Gaby are investigating the people on Blake's list with the "help" of the French. But once again, it seems that the enemy is always one move ahead of them in this deadly game of chess...
1. Chapter 1

**New story :) Sequel to Unhappy customer, A simple mission, really and Dans la gueule du loup**

**I hope you'll enjoy this one :)**

**Here is the design for Théo Devanne (I created an updated album for this story): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"gykrVa (just remove the "")**

* * *

_**Unknown location, Asher's p.o.v.**_

* * *

_He should be here soon..._

Asher Marshall sat up on the narrow, uncomfortable bed and, for the umpteenth time, scanned the tiny room for something he could use as a weapon. The only piece of furniture was the bed and it was bolted to the floor. Even his toothbrush was secured to the wall with a chain.

_What would you do with it, anyway? Poke the guy in the eye? Brush his teeth to death?..._

The small piece of plastic wasn't nearly sharp enough to cause any serious damage. Asher sighed and looked up at the security camera set in the ceiling. They were watching him, anyway, and he knew that they would instantly notice any suspicious behavior on his part. In a way, he was rather counting on their swift reaction... He looked down at the long chain which connected the manacle around his left wrist to a heavy iron ring in the wall. With no other weapon readily available, this would have to do. Hopefully, he had recovered enough to be able to hold his own in a fight. His captors had taken surprisingly good care of him and most of his injuries had healed nicely. Apparently – for some obscure reason – they were determined to keep him alive and in relatively good shape. That was another thing he was counting on. They had kept him sedated for most of his recovery, then he had been transferred to his "cell". His ribs were still painful. His arm, too. His captors kindly provided pills, which he supposed were painkillers, with his daily meal, but he never touched them. He remembered all too well what had happened the last time he had been "offered" a pill, the sudden, terrifying numbness... He didn't know exactly what type of drug the French guy had given him, but one thing he knew for certain was that he never wanted to experience that sensation again. He suddenly heard footsteps in the corridor outside his cell.

_Here he comes. Hopefully it's not soup..._

After a few seconds, the hatch at the bottom of the door opened and a tray slid through the opening. He had to suppress a smile as he noticed the piece of bread. It looked stale and was the perfect prop for what he had in mind.

_And now for his next trick, ladies and gentlemen, Marshall the Magnificent is going to...choke. On a piece of stale bread..._

Granted, it probably wasn't the strongest contender for best plan of the year, but it was all he had managed to come up with in order to lure the guard into his cell. If his captors really wanted him to stay alive, they would send the guy in. The guard would have to come close in order to help him, then Asher would overpower him, get his hands on the key which opened the manacle around his wrist, take the man's gun, and get the hell out of here before the other guards arrived. A walk in the park. What could possibly go wrong...

_Everything?..._

It suddenly occurred to him how awkward it would be if no one came. What would he do? Continue pretending that he was dying for a while, then lie down on the floor and never move again? Or simply get up as if nothing had happened and get back to staring at the wall while trying really hard to hide his embarrassment? Oh well, it was worth a try, and he was more than ready to risk making a fool of himself if there was a chance that he could get out of this cell. He was not particularly claustrophobic, but the prospect of being cooped up in this tiny room for an indeterminate amount of time – with a chained toothbrush as his only cellmate and a toilet flush as his sole distraction – was unappealing, to say the least.

_Okay, Asher, time to show off your acting skills..._

First, drink up all the water. He would have nothing to wash down the dry bread and it would make the scene more plausible. Okay, now the bread. Remember, grab your throat, wide, panicked eyes, pretend you can't breathe. That part would be easy. He had plenty of experience in the not-being-able-to-breathe department. His mind flashed back to his recent brush with death at Blake's hands, that agonizing moment when he had realized he would never take another breath. He chased the thought away and grabbed the piece of bread. He took one giant bite of the _very_ stale bread, chewed painstakingly, swallowed... and almost choked on it.

_Seriously?!..._

He wanted to make it look real, but not_ that _real. He finally managed to swallow the traitorous mouthful and took a second – smaller – bite. There would be no "part two" of the plan if he actually choked to death like an idiot.

_All right, let's do this..._

As Asher fell to his knees after what had seemed like an eternity, clutching his throat and opening and closing his mouth in a glorious imitation of a stranded fish, he finally heard the door being unlocked and aggressively flung open. The guard rushed in, roughly pulled him up and immediately wrapped his arms around Asher's waist, suddenly reminding him about his painful ribs.

_Oh shit, that's going to hurt..._

No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than the guard started squeezing his abdomen. Asher bit back a cry of pain and made an effort to let himself go limp in the guard's grasp. He really wanted the man to believe that he was completely helpless and on the verge of passing out. The guard cursed loudly as he struggled to hold him up and, just as he was about to administer another abdominal thrust, Asher suddenly straightened up, threw his head back and head-butted him in the nose. The man let out a satisfying "aargh" and the painful pressure on Asher's midsection disappeared. He immediately turned around and saw the man holding his nose with one hand and reaching for his gun with the other. Crap. He grabbed the guard's gun hand as he was raising it and rammed his knee into the man's gut, as hard as he could. He heard the gun clatter away as the man gasped and doubled over. Phew. Asher quickly stepped around the guard, kicked him behind the knees and pulled him close as he went down. He used his left arm to wrap the chain around the man's neck and pulled it tight. As he waited for the man to lose consciousness, he began frantically searching his pockets with his other hand.

_Where are those damn keys?..._

He froze as he suddenly became aware of running footsteps just outside the cell. Too late.

_Dammit!..._

He turned toward the door just as several men – too many for him to fight off alone – barged into the small room. Before he could even begin to contemplate his next move, something hit him in the torso and an intense wave of pain coursed through him. Asher fell down as his muscles contracted uncontrollably. It only lasted for a few seconds. A few _very_ unpleasant seconds. Then the pain was gone, as quickly as it had come. Before he could push himself up to his knees, two guards grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. He gasped as he felt his right arm being painfully twisted behind his back.

"Hmm on dirait que notre petit dur-à-cuire de la CIA a repris du poil de la bête. C'est Wilfred qui va être content. / Hmm, apparently, our tough little CIA agent is feeling much better. Wilfred will be pleased to hear that."

The man in front of him was the one who had shot him with the electroshock weapon. Asher recognized him instantly, he was the green-eyed bastard who had watched with a smile as Cordier was suffocating him and forcing him to ingest the drug. The man stepped closer, reached for one of the barbs embedded in Asher's torso and yanked it out.

_Ouch...Yet another ruined shirt..._

He repeated the same process with the second barb, then he took a step back and gave Asher a cold smile.

"I suggest you make the most out of your time here, agent Marshall. You might soon find yourself missing the coziness and tranquility of your cell..."

_That doesn't sound ominous at all... Oh well, it probably can't be worse than a fight to the death against Blake..._

* * *

_**Murmansk, Russia, Illya's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Illya nervously glanced at his watch. Where the hell was everyone? For the fourth time he tried to contact the other members of the team, one after the other. Nothing. He glanced at the the tracking device. Their target and his interlocutor were still in the building. The transaction was underway. Everything was going according to plan. Everything... except for the fact that his colleagues seemed to have vanished into thin air. He sighed in frustration and checked his watch again. Fifteen minutes had elapsed since the last radio contact. That was definitely not a good sign. He was about to try the radio again when he noticed that the target had started moving. Illya cursed inwardly. Was their carefully planned mission really going to fail because those idiots didn't know how to use a radio? But deep down he knew that his colleagues' silence had nothing to do with their radio communication skills. Something had happened to the rest of the team. He shot another glance at the tracking device and hesitated. The wisest course of action was to abort the mission and get out of here. There was no way he would be able to overpower the targets and their henchmen alone. He would end up dead, or worse, be captured. Maybe the whole thing had been a trap from the beginning. Maybe his colleagues were all dead... Or maybe some of them were still alive and needed backup. According to his superiors' orders, Illya wasn't supposed to get out of this van, his role was strictly limited to surveillance and radio communications. He cursed again. Aloud, this time. Working with Cowboy and Gaby had definitely changed him. For the better or for the worse, he wasn't sure yet. But he was about to find out. He took off the headset and pulled his gun out of his shoulder holster. His handler was not going to be pleased. Since he had started working for the KGB again, he had had to constantly remind himself that his superiors were significantly less understanding and forgiving than Waverly.

_You're becoming soft, Kuryakin..._

That said, they probably wouldn't be pleased either if he let the targets escape and came back empty-handed. He opened the van sliding door and stepped out in the cold. At least, if he died, he wouldn't have to justify his disobedience.

* * *

**End of chapter 1. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 :) Ouch...**

**Here are the designs for Théo Devanne and Loup Briac (I created an updated album for this story): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"gykrVa (just remove the "")**

* * *

_**MI6 building, Solo's p.o.v.**_

* * *

"Agent Loup Briac, here, will assist your team during this mission. His expertise in the field of surveillance technologies and his firearms proficiency will certainly prove useful. He has also been briefed about every aspect of the investigation, of course, and..."

"You forgot to mention that he has a death wish.", Sanders cut in, before Devanne could finish his sentence. "I thought you would have learned your lesson after what happened to Drancy, or maybe you are going for a record..."

Napoleon glanced at Waverly who made a point of ignoring his American colleague's low blow. Sanders wanted nothing to do with the French and apparently he was determined to make that as obvious as possible.

"Thank you, Théophile, I'm sure that your agent will be a perfect addition to the team, especially since Kuryakin hasn't returned yet."

Napoleon exchanged a glance with Gaby. Illya's assignment with the KGB was apparently taking longer than expected and they were both missing their Russian partner. He sighed inwardly and turned his attention to their new French colleague. He was a tall, thirty-something man, with short brown hair. His sharp-featured face was probably attractive when he was in a good mood, which was obviously not the case on this particular day.

_Our new friend looks almost as happy as Sanders..._

Napoleon's gaze shifted to Devanne and he realized that the man had been staring at him. Rolland Cordier had not been able to attend the meeting so his colleague had taken his place, and while Napoleon had yet to form an opinion on teaming up with the French, he had already decided that he disliked Devanne. There was just something about the man that made him uneasy. And if he was completely honest, the episode with the poetry book at Shelley's place definitely had something to do with it. The pre-mission briefing lasted for about another half hour, then both Sanders and Devanne stood up to leave.

"I think I'd better see them out, just to make sure that they don't try to kill each other.", Waverly said, winking at Gaby and Napoleon, before he followed his colleagues out of the room.

Napoleon exchanged another brief glance with Gaby before he turned his attention back to the third person in the room. Briac, who had not moved since the beginning of the meeting, was still leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room. And he still looked positively pissed off.

_Let's see if we can break the ice..._

"So... Loup is your actual name? It means "wolf", right?"

The French agent stared at him without answering for an uncomfortably long time.

"Maxime Drancy was my friend and you got him killed.", he finally said, before he stalked out of the room without another word.

_This bodes well for the mission... At least his English sounds impeccable..._

* * *

_**Two weeks later, Palmer House Hilton hotel, Chicago, Solo's p.o.v.**_

* * *

"You're an excellent dancer, Mr Morgan."

"Thank you. I'll be sure to tell my wife, she's the one who taught me how to dance."

"Your wife?..."

Napoleon's lovely dance partner frowned and her eyes shifted to his left hand. Then she looked up at him and broke into a smile.

"You're such a tease."

"How can you be sure I didn't take off my ring?"

Her smile grew even wider.

"Somehow you don't strike me as the marrying type, Mr Morgan."

"Charles."

"Do you think your wife would mind if you and I had a drink together, Mr Charles Morgan?"

"No, I don't think she would."

"There's nothing stopping us, then. Shall we?", she said as she took him by the hand and led him through the sumptuous reception room, away from the crowded dance floor.

_So far, so good..._

The undercover mission had required a lot of careful planning, and getting an invitation for the ultra-exclusive private party had not been an easy task, but here he was, enjoying the party as Charles Morgan, a newly minted millionaire entrepreneur, flirting with Celia Harlow, an even richer, charming lady, who also happened to be one of the people on Blake's list. As they sat down at the bar, she leaned over to whisper something in the bartender's ear. The man nodded and left.

"I ordered something special, to celebrate our first encounter."

"Are you trying to impress me, Miss Harlow? I'd be careful if I were you, I might retaliate..."

She gave a soft laugh.

"And how could _you_ possibly hope to impress me, Charles?"

"Well, wouldn't you like to know?"

_Gaby and Wolf must be enjoying this..._

Napoleon had to suppress a chuckle as he imagined his partners cringing at the unbearably cheesy conversation. Luckily for him, the bartender chose this moment to come back with their special order. The man set the two glasses down in front of them. Napoleon eyed his glass and hesitated. The drink had not been poured in front of him and had potentially been tampered with.

"Don't look so worried, it's just wine.", Harlow laughed. "Very expensive wine at that. One bottle costs about 8000 dollars. It's French."

_Of course it would be..._

"To a promising friendship?", she said, as she raised her own glass.

"Are you sure you want to drink to friendship?"

"To us, then.", she corrected with a mischievous smile.

He hesitated for another second then decided to humor her. Even if his drink had indeed been spiked – which would mean that his cover had been blown, somehow – he probably wasn't in any immediate danger of dying. She would want to get information out of him before she killed him. He might even be able to learn more that way than by spending the night with her. People usually tended to be more talkative when you were completely at their mercy. And if worse came to worst, he knew that his reluctant French guardian angel would be watching over him. Or at least he hoped so...

"To us."

He raised his glass and took a sip. The wine was good, maybe a little too sweet for his liking. The conversation went on for a few minutes, during which he tried to drink as little of the wine as he possibly could without arousing suspicion.

"Would you like to see my room, Charles?", she suddenly asked. "It's nice and cozy, a quiet place, away from the crowd... we could enjoy the rest of this delicious wine..."

"I think that's an excellent idea."

She grabbed her glass with one hand and his hand with the other. As they left the reception room, Napoleon took a few seconds to assess his physical state. No loss of coordination, no blurred vision... He was fine.

_So far...so good..._

It wasn't long before his assessment changed, though. Drastically. As they walked along the third floor corridors, the effects of the drug suddenly kicked in. Napoleon felt his legs buckle under him as the whole corridor started spinning.

"Come on, Charlie, we're almost there. You're not going to make me carry you, are you? How ungentlemanly..."

Suddenly, he couldn't hear her voice anymore, the sound was gone, the image soon followed...

...He opened his eyes, grimacing as he felt a sudden, stabbing pain in his head. He tried to raise his hands to massage his temples, only to discover that his hands were already raised, far above his head, and that his wrists, and his ankles, were tied to the posts of the bed he was lying on.

"How are you feeling, Charlie?"

Napoleon made an effort to raise his head and saw Celia Harlow, coming out of what he supposed was the bathroom of her hotel room.

"Confused...and slightly disappointed that I'm still fully clothed. Would you mind telling me what's going on?"

She laughed, her soft, musical laugh.

"You are truly adorable. I think we both know what's going on, _Charlie_."

_Well...So long, Charles Morgan... Let's find out exactly how much she knows about me..._

"Did _they_ really think I wouldn't notice? Christopher Warren, Samuel Landry, Nicholas Foster, Albert Copeland... all dead. They're picking us off, one by one. The organization is pruning the tree and so they sent their cute little errand boy to my door."

Napoleon frowned, he already knew what had happened to Warren and Landry, but if he understood correctly, the two other men – whose names were also on the list – were dead too. It couldn't be Blake this time, though...

"I have bad news for you, though.", Harlow went on. "Unlike the others, I have a few powerful friends looking out for me, who warned me that you were coming. So, I'm afraid you're the one who's going to die tonight, errand boy..."

_The question is: did her friends warn her about me specifically, or is there an actual assassin without a date, drowning his sorrows at the bar downstairs?..._

Napoleon suddenly realized that Harlow had stopped talking and was staring at him, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. After a few seconds she climbed on the bed, next to him, and started unbuttoning his shirt. Slowly.

_Oh, okay..._

He cleared his throat. Maybe if he kept her talking, he would be able to learn more about those mysterious "powerful friends" she had mentioned.

"Hmm, normally I wouldn't complain, but after our little discussion, I'm afraid I'm no longer in the mood..."

"Shh..", she whispered, putting her finger to his lips.

She undid the last button and opened his shirt wide. Then she got up and disappeared into the bathroom for a few seconds. When she reappeared, she was holding a roll of duct tape in one hand and a glinting object which looked dangerously like a scalpel in the other. Napoleon's pulse began to hammer.

_All right, time to use our safe word..._

"Wolf...", he muttered, hoping that his partner was listening.

Harlow set the scalpel down on the nightstand and began unrolling the duct tape.

"Wolf!...", Napoleon repeated, louder and more urgently.

This time, Harlow frowned and, with surprising speed, she grabbed the scalpel and pressed the tip of the blade against his throat.

"Shh..."

Napoleon nodded to let her know that he understood the message, but she kept the blade near his throat as she wrapped several layers of duct tape around the lower part of his face. Once she had finished, she lay down on the bed, and nestled against him, resting her head on his chest. He could distinctly smell her fruity perfume...and her psychopathic tendencies.

_Don't panic, he'll be here soon... Damn, I miss Illya..._

She kept her ear pressed to his pounding heart for a few more seconds then she raised her head and looked into his eyes.

"Well, apparently _someone_ is scared...", she said with a playful smile. "Don't worry.", she added, lowering her voice to a sensual whisper. "I'm only going to kill you, I promise."

She raised the scalpel and slowly brought it close to the center of his chest.

_I'm about to die here, what the hell is taking you so long?!..._

The blade sliced through his skin and he tried to scream but the tape muffled his voice. She smiled at him and pushed the blade slightly deeper, then wiggled it in the wound. He screamed again and thrashed against his bonds. While one part of his brain was focused on the sharp piece of metal in his chest, the other part was downright indignant. Couldn't his partner hear that he was getting killed?

_Dammit, Wolf!..._

Then everything happened really fast. He heard a loud bang, a sharp click and Celia Harlow collapsed like a rag doll on the bed next to him.

_Is she...dead?..._

"_Hmmmhmmm!", _he shouted angrily as he raised his head and spotted Wolf in the doorway.

The French agent quickly stepped closer to the bed, moved Harlow's body out of the way, and pulled his combat knife out of his leg sheath. He sliced through the layers of tape and unceremoniously ripped it off Napoleon's face.

_Ouch..._

"You were saying?"

_I don't think you want to know..._

"Better late than never, I suppose... you might want to get your ears checked, however."

"I got delayed..."

"And I almost got eviscerated."

"I believe the word you're looking for is "thanks""

Napoleon sighed and let his head drop back down on the mattress.

"Thanks. But you didn't have to _kill_ her. You do realize that the aim of the mission was to gather information, right? She's going to be considerably less talkative now."

"I was trying to save your viscera. Maybe I should have shot you instead, it would have spared me the lecture..."

The other agent suddenly fell silent and froze. Napoleon had heard them, too. Voices. Shouting. Getting closer.

"Merde.../ Crap..."

"And what is that?"

"The reason for my delay."

The French agent stepped away from the bed and rushed to the window.

"Wait, what are you doing? Untie me!"

"Relax... I think I've found our way out."

Napoleon watched tensely as Wolf pushed the window wide open, then sprinted back to the bed and started slicing through his bonds with his combat knife. Just as he was about to cut the last piece of rope around Napoleon's left wrist, a man appeared in the doorway. A man with a gun. A gun aimed at the French agent's head...

_Dammit!..._

"Wolf!..."

* * *

_**Unknown location, Wilfred's p.o.v.**_

* * *

"Good job, Thomas. I think you just beat your own record. How does it feel?"

_Very painful, apparently..._

Wilfred studied his victim's face for a few seconds. The French agent was bleeding from his nose again and a mixture of blood and saliva was trickling down his chin. Interesting. He grabbed a piece of gauze from the medical tray and, as he gently wiped Réant's face clean, he wondered what could be the cause of the recurrent bleeding. He knew that Réant had been tortured prior to his arrival, but they had not told him exactly what they had done to him. He would have to ask Monroe, his fellow doctor. He couldn't risk killing the French agent. Not yet... He set the used gauze pad down on the tray and turned his attention to Maxime Drancy. So far, the agent's heart seemed to be holding up well, despite the stress he was being subjected to. Drancy's gaze was fixed on his partner and Wilfred could clearly see the pain in his eyes. He felt a smile tug at his lips.

"It's not easy seeing him like this, is it? You can make it stop, Maxime. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Réant make an effort to shake his head and he felt his smile grow wider.

_You're making this even harder for him, my little friend..._

They were nearing the end of the session. Réant could go through one more round, maybe two, but no more than that. Drancy had not uttered a single word yet, but it didn't really matter. He was just getting started. Drancy obviously cared about his partner and Wilfred had no doubt that the agent would start talking, eventually. It was only a matter of time.

_At least, it gives me time to think of a solution to my "little problem"..._

* * *

_**Maxime's p.o.v.**_

* * *

"All right, Thomas, let's go for another round, since your partner so thoroughly enjoys watching you suffer..."

Maxime's heart sank as he saw the look of fear in his friend's eyes. He lowered his gaze, unable to look Thomas in the face, and his eyes fell on the electrodes attached to his partner's torso.

"Ready?"

_Non, putain, non!.../ No, dammit, no!..._

Once again, he could only watch helplessly as Thomas's body suddenly tightened and shook, and a gut-wrenching, gurgling scream came out of his mouth. It lasted even longer than the previous time and when it finally stopped, Maxime realized that he had been holding his breath the whole time. He kept his gaze fixed on his partner's slumped body, expecting him to raise his head and cough or gasp. But this time, nothing happened. Maxime's heart began to pound violently. The assassin casually stepped closer to the chair and grabbed a fistful of Thomas's hair, pulling his head up, then he let go. Thomas's head lolled back lifelessly.

"Don't worry.", the assassin said, winking at him. "He's just taking a little nap. It's time for his break, anyway. I think he deserves it, after everything you put him through..."

Maxime's heartbeat settled somewhat as relief washed over him. However, it was short-lived. As long as Thomas was alive, the torture would not stop. No one would come to rescue them, and he did not know how much longer he could bear to watch his friend suffer. The worst thing was that he knew exactly what his captors were looking for. He had been thoroughly confused at first when the assassin had started talking about some kind of prototype microchip. It was only when the assassin had mentioned the size of the chip, and had asked him if Thomas had given him something before his "death", that he had connected the dots... No wonder Thomas had been staring at his chest so intently. He had been trying to catch a glimpse of the medallion through his open shirt collar. Apparently, what it contained was important enough for his friend to be willing to be tortured to death to protect it. But the medallion was no longer in his possession, which meant that his captors probably had it already, or had thrown it away... The sound of the door opening snapped him out of his thoughts. Two guards stepped into the room, walked up to Thomas's chair and cut his bonds. One of them caught Thomas's limp body before it crumpled to the floor while the other removed the electrodes from his torso. As they dragged him out, a third man walked into the room. He was the man who had left Thomas and him "in the care" of the assassin, earlier.

"It's already over? So soon?"

"You said you wanted him to stay alive. I'm just making sure he does...Sir."

The man gestured in Maxime's direction.

"Has he told you anything, so far?"

"Not yet."

"Hmm, I'm surprised. Maybe you don't quite live up to your reputation, after all... Let's hope that you'll have more luck once Réant's nap time is over."

"I have no doubt that I will, Sir."

"Good. Don't forget what's at stake for you, Wilfred.", the man answered before he walked out of the room, leaving Maxime alone with the assassin.

A few seconds passed in uncomfortable silence. The assassin was staring at him, his face unreadable.

"You and I both know that Thomas is not going to make it out of this place alive.", he finally said, as he stepped closer to Maxime's chair. "Now, I can make it very easy for him. Or...I can make it really slow and unbelievably painful. It's your call, Maxime."

The assassin paused, waiting for an answer, and when it did not come, he let out an exaggerated sigh of disappointment and went on.

"You know, Maxime, I don't think you realize just how long I can go on torturing your friend without even coming close to killing him. Are you sure you want to find out?"

Maxime cursed inwardly. The man had perfectly summed up the situation. Either he gave them what they wanted and Thomas would die, or he kept his mouth shut – just as Thomas had begged him to – and prolonged his friend's ordeal. His heart began to pound again as he finally faced the fact that there was no way out, and he suddenly found himself wishing that his arrhythmia would kill him so that he wouldn't have to make this impossible decision.

_Putain... Thomas, je veux pas que tu meures.../ Shit... Thomas, I don't want you to die..._

* * *

**End of chapter 2. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 :) More ouch...**

**Here are the designs for Théo Devanne and Loup "Wolf" Briac : "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"gykrVa (just remove the "")**

* * *

_**Unknown location, Maxime's p.o.v.**_

* * *

The screaming stopped, replaced by whimpers. And sobbing. Thomas was crying. The assassin stepped aside, as if to let Maxime admire his sick work. His partner's naked torso was covered with bloody burns. Maxime 's gaze shifted to his friend's face. Blood was trickling from his nose and the corner of his mouth again. Tears were rolling down his face, mixing with the blood. Thomas was crying...

"It's okay Thomas. You've been very brave.", the assassin said, as he ruffled Thomas's hair. "It's not your fault your selfish friend just won't put an end to your suffering."

Maxime felt his heart clench. The man was right. He was being selfish. His friend just wanted the pain to end. He couldn't believe he had let the assassin torture Thomas for so long. He had no right to put his friend through this ordeal. _He_ was torturing Thomas. It was his fault... He looked up at the assassin. The man's eyes were fixed on him. He was smiling... No. No, it was _not_ his fault. Of course not. The asshole was messing with his head. Thomas counted on him to keep his mouth shut. He couldn't let him down. Not after everything his friend had already endured... His gaze shifted back to Thomas's tear-stained face. But was it really worth it?...

The assassin stepped away from the chair Thomas was tied to, and went to reheat the knife he was using to torture his victim.

"Poor Thomas. I'll try to be a little more persuasive...", he said, before he positioned himself right behind Thomas and slowly brought the knife close to his face. Thomas's eyes went wide with fear and he desperately tried to move his face away from the red-hot blade. The assassin smiled and grabbed him by the hair to hold his head still.

"Now, now, hold still, Thomas. I wouldn't want to poke your eye out. Not yet..."

The man lightly pressed the spine of the searing blade against his victim's cheek. Thomas's body jerked against his bonds and suddenly, as he heard his friend scream in agony, Maxime made his decision.

"Wait! Stop! I'll tell you what you want to know."

There was a moment of silence, only broken by Thomas's ragged breathing. Then the assassin finally moved the knife away from Thomas's face and set it down. He looked up at Maxime and the corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile.

"Ah, I had a feeling that you wouldn't let me ruin his handsome face.", he said as his finger traced the thin line of burned flesh on Thomas's cheek. "I'm glad you're finally being reasonable. And Thomas is glad too, aren't you, Thomas?"

"Non...Max...j't'en prie..." / "No...Max...please..."

The assassin clicked his tongue disapprovingly and walked straight to the door. He opened it and after a few seconds, the guards came in. They untied Thomas, and as they half dragged, half carried his bleeding, whimpering partner out of the room, Maxime realized that he probably would never see him again...

* * *

_**Wilfred's p.o.v.**_

* * *

_Well, that was even quicker than I thought it would be..._

He had initially wanted to take his time with Réant. But after his conversation with Monroe about the agent's frequent nose and mouth bleeding, he had decided to take it up a notch. He did not want to take any chances. He almost felt a pang of disappointment as he watched the guards drag Réant out of the room. Torturing the French agent in front of his friend had been rather entertaining. But his disappointment quickly gave way to excitement as he thought about what he had been promised if he managed to make Drancy talk. He felt a smile stretch his lips.

_Another delightful reunion..._

His smile faded somewhat as he raised his hand to feel his right side. There still was that one little issue he needed to take care of...

* * *

_**Chicago, Solo's p.o.v.**_

* * *

_Well, that was a narrow escape..._

Napoleon watched as Wolf reached down for the first aid kit under the front seat of the car, grabbed a piece of gauze and pressed it against the bullet graze on the side of his neck. The French agent then turned to him and handed him another thick piece of gauze.

"You're still bleeding.", he said, pointing at the cut on Napoleon's chest.

"Ah, _now_ you're concerned...", Napoleon answered sarcastically.

"Yeah, concerned about you ruining the car seat."

Napoleon shot a sheepish glance at the rearview mirror and caught Gaby's disapproving look. He accepted the piece of gauze and used it to soak up the blood that was still trickling from his cut. He would probably need a few stitches.

"So, what exactly happened back there?", Gaby asked.

Napoleon opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by Wolf who proceeded to give Gaby a detailed account of what had happened at the hotel.

_Fine, don't mind me, it's not like I was actually there..._

"So, we didn't learn much, apart from the fact that someone is killing the people on our list."

"We would probably have been able to learn more if our French gunslinger here had been a little less enthusiastic..."

"I saved your life. A little gratitude wouldn't hurt."

"Well, I shot the guy who was about to blow your brains out and I didn't hear you say "thanks".", Napoleon countered.

"Could you two try to get along at least while the three of us are stuck in the same car? It reminds me of you and Illya at the beginning.", Gaby sighed, as she glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

_Yeah, back when I didn't trust Illya..._

Napoleon suddenly wondered how the Russian was doing. Maybe he, too, had found a replacement partner to bicker with.

* * *

_**Two weeks earlier, Murmansk, Russia, Illya's p.o.v.**_

* * *

As he made his way through the maze of corridors, Illya seriously began to wonder if he had hallucinated the rest of the team, and the whole mission. He had encountered no one outside the building and, so far, no one inside. There were no signs of a scuffle anywhere, no blood, nothing. Where was everyone? He had seen the targets enter the building, with several other men. And then there was his team, six men. He was fairly certain that no one had come out. They had to be here, somewhere. Suddenly, what sounded like a faint, muffled whimper broke the unsettling silence. Illya felt a jolt of adrenaline course though his body as he pointed his gun at the door to his right. He waited for a few seconds before he put one hand on the handle and cracked the door open, as slowly and silently as possible. The door led to another corridor and a set of stairs. And this time, there was blood. A lot of it. It looked like a badly injured person had been dragged up the stairs. Illya felt his jaw clench. There was a strong likelihood that the "badly injured person" had been a KGB agent. He heard another whimpering sound. Louder this time. It was definitely coming from upstairs. Illya hesitated for another few seconds, then he decided to follow the blood trail. At the top of the stairs there was more blood. Illya stayed close to the wall and peeked around the corner. At the end of the blood trail, there was a man, alone, propped up against the wall. Illya cursed inwardly. Even with the poor lighting, he easily identified the man. He was one of his colleagues. A promising young agent. Or at least he had been, until someone had decided to use him for target practice. From where he was standing, Illya could see at least three bullet wounds. Right leg, right shoulder, left arm. No head or chest wound.

_Not good..._

The shot placement seemed a little too convenient. Usually when you wanted to kill someone you aimed for the head or for center mass. Unless you wanted them to survive long enough to serve as bait. Illya nervously scanned both ends of the corridor. The smart thing to do was to get out of here as fast as possible. If it was a trap, and it almost certainly was, it probably meant that the rest of his team were already dead. And there was no way he would be able to stabilize the injured man and get him out of the building without both of them getting killed or captured. His gaze shifted back to the young agent's face. His eyes were screwed shut in pain and he had not noticed Illya yet. Just as he was about to start retreating toward the stairs, the agent let out another whimper and opened his eyes. Illya cursed again. The young man was still alive and he was in pain, he couldn't just leave him there to bleed out, even if it was the logical thing to do. He scanned the corridor again and after a second's hesitation he rushed to the injured man's side as silently as possible. As soon as the young agent saw him he started shaking his head vehemently, confirming Illya's suspicions. Ignoring his warnings, Illya grabbed the young man's right arm and pulled him up, wrapping his own arm around his waist. The agent made a commendable effort to stifle his cry of pain but his voice still echoed loudly in the eerie silence. Illya froze, gun at the ready but nothing happened. He adjusted his grip around the other agent's waist and started turning toward the stairs. Maybe they _would_ make it after all, if they made a run f... A sudden, loud noise made his heart jump and he felt something spray his face. The body of the young agent suddenly seemed much heavier. Dead weight. Dead agent... He glanced at the young man's head, which was now hanging down limply against his shoulder, and saw blood. And an ugly hole. He turned around and there was a man at the end of the corridor. Then several men. Coming from both sides. Surrounding him.

"Drop your weapon."

Illya frowned. The man's accent...

"I said drop your weapon."

Illya reluctantly complied.

"Drop the boy, too. We have no further use for him."

Illya gently lowered the young agent's body to the floor and resisted the urge to retrieve his gun and shoot the asshole who was snickering.

The man who appeared to be the leader of the group motioned to one of the other men, who pulled out a pair of handcuffs and used them to cuff Illya's hands behind his back. As they led him down the stairs and back to the entrance of the building, Illya tried to wrap his head around the situation. What were a bunch of French assholes doing in Russia? What were they doing here, in Murmansk? What had they done to the rest of his team? Why hadn't they killed him?...

After a few minutes, they reached the lobby – where several other men were waiting for them – and right there, in front of him, was the answer to one of his questions. The dead bodies of his colleagues were now lined up on the floor. Only two of them were missing. Of course he already knew where the youngest member of the team was. The other missing agent was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he had been smarter than him and had managed to escape... Next to his dead colleagues was an extra body. Illya recognized their target. Looking up, he realized that the leader of the French group was now talking with the man whom their target had been supposed to meet with.

"Trouvé!" / "Found him!"

Illya's head whipped around as three more men entered the lobby. One of them was the missing KGB agent. He was held at gunpoint by the two other men. His face was bruised and his nose was bleeding, but he appeared otherwise unharmed. The leader glanced at the KGB agent and addressed one of the men who were holding him at gunpoint. Illya concentrated to understand what the man was saying.

"Il a dit qu'il voulait seulement celui-là." / "He said he only wanted this one.", the leader said, pointing at Illya.

The other man shrugged.

"Il est russe aussi, non? Ça m'étonnerait que le patron refuse une occasion de torturer un russe." / "He's Russian too, isn't he? I would be surprised if the boss declined an opportunity to torture a Russian."

"Soit." / "Fair enough."

Illya exchanged a glance with the other agent as the men took them outside. His colleague may not have been fluent in French, but the word "torture" was pretty easily identifiable. Illya felt anger rise inside him. This was just what he needed, after the fiasco of his last mission and Marshall's death...

* * *

_**Unknown location, Maxime's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Maxime's head snapped up as the door opened and the assassin walked into the room. He had been sitting there alone for so long, tied to that chair, that he had started to doze off.

"I have good news for you, Maxime..."

To his surprise, Thomas was here too, supported by two guards. Just like the previous times, they tied his partner to the chair opposite his, then left the room.

"My...employers are very pleased.", the assassin went on as he slowly paced around the room. "Apparently the information you gave us turned out to be useful."

The man stopped as he reached the chair Maxime was sitting on, and bent down to whisper in his ear.

"That means we can free Thomas..."

Maxime's blood ran cold. He looked at Thomas who had been unable to hear the assassin's words but had probably noticed his expression change.

"Max?..."

He could hear the tension in his friend's voice. Thomas was scared. The assassin walked up to Thomas's chair and stepped around it to stand behind him. He obviously wanted Maxime to be able to see what he was about to do. Then he pulled a long, thin knife out of his leg sheath.

_Non..._

The man reached over Thomas's right shoulder and placed the point of the blade against his bare chest. His friend looked down at the knife, then up at Maxime.

"C'est pas ta faute Max, c'est pas ta..."/ "It's not your fault Max, it's not your..."

His sentence ended in a gasp as the assassin started slowly pushing the blade between his ribs.

"Thomas! Non, pitié! Non! Espèce de salaud!"/ "Thomas! No, please! No! You fucking bastard!"

The assassin paused, looked up and gave Maxime an amused smile before driving the knife deep into Thomas's heart. His friend's eyes went wide and a strangled gurgle came out of his mouth. His panicked eyes remained fixed on Maxime for several long seconds. Then his head lolled back limply and he was gone. Maxime just stared at Thomas's body, completely stunned. The exposed, thin white scar on his friend's neck was taunting him. That day he had been able to save Thomas's life. But not this time...

The assassin slowly pulled the blade out of Thomas's chest.

"See, I told you I could make it easy for him."

As Maxime heard his captor laugh softly, he started to feel dizzy and suddenly became aware that his heart was once again beating too fast and hard in his chest, so hard it hurt. Of course, he instantly recognized the now familiar sensation. And he could tell that it was bad. As he struggled to breathe properly, he thought about Thomas, about Antoine. Now it was his turn to die. He knew he should have been feeling relieved but instead he was just so damn scared... Suddenly, the assassin was right beside him, pressing two fingers against his carotid. Then the man was behind him. He felt his bonds being cut and he toppled forward. He heard himself whimper pitifully as the assassin caught him and laid him down on the floor. Then the man ripped his shirt open.

"Oh no, my little friend, you are staying. I'm not finished with you yet..."

* * *

**End of chapter 3.**

Fly away Thomas, fly away unnamed KGB agent :s

**I hope you enjoyed the read :)**


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